Game of Wits
by Jack Wong
Summary: A tough case for the Bat.


The batcave is quiet and dark, and feels more so as I stare at the computer screen, shutting out the rest of the world visually and audibly. I'm listening for snatches of conversation, looking for suspicious faces on a security feed – I have been for some time.

The baseball in my hand yields to no pressure, and neither does this case. Someone stole a similar ball from a sports museum, an old, old ball from a Babe Ruth home run back in the 1920s, and replaced it with this, a worthless copy. It's doubtless the real ball has been fenced to a private collector, and is probably long gone from Gotham. But something about this whole situation has me perplexed, stuck on it, and I don't know what…

"Master Bruce," Alfred says, walking down the stairs with a blanket and pillows in his hands, "it's 8am, sir. If you're going to stay in the cave, fine, but you know how you get with no sleep."

I stare. "And how do I get, Alfred?"

"Sloppy, sir."

"Right." I stand. "Let me get those," I say, and take them from him before he can carry them back; I do so myself, and we make our way up to the mansion.

"It's this ball case, then," Alfred says. I nod, and he sighs. "It's been five days, Master Bruce."

I nod. "Which means the tracks are still fresh."

"Hardly," he says. "Wasn't it you who said-"

"I'm close to a breakthrough," I say.

"And what are your latest leads?"

I pause. I don't have any, and he knows it.

"What was it your teacher told you?" Alfred asks. "The Frenchman?"

I look down.

"You have often quoted him saying it," he says.

"He said that no man can solve them all," I say, and sigh. I take the ball and lightly throw it into the cave, where I hear it bounce before settling far down in the abyss.

"While you were obsessively contemplating, I prepared and put away dinner," Alfred says as we get close to the clock entrance. "Shall I reheat it?"

"No, I'll be going straight to bed," I say. "Wouldn't want to get sloppier than normal."

He pauses and lets me walk through the door first. "Of course not, sir." The mansion's lights hurt my eyes, but they adjust as I make my way to my current bedroom.

It was a simple burglary, snatch and grab, with a few seconds of searching in the bag for the replica. The thief didn't know there were cameras, but there were – he was fast, though, and evaded arrest.

But something wasn't right about it. He didn't just evade the police; he evaded me. No trace. I'm used to solving a case when I put time into it; used to my equipment coming in handy, used to finding a clue or two that helps me nail the perp and catching them red-handed. But nothing has helped me here.

No man can solve them all, he said.

Maybe he was right.

I strip to my underwear and get into bed, suddenly heavy in the eyelids. I start to drift off at the exact moment my bell rings, snapping me out of it. "What is it, Alfred?" I say into the intercom.

"Someone is at the gate, Master Bruce."

I sigh. "And it can't wait?"

"It's Henri Ducard," Alfred says. I sit up. What? "His flight to Paris leaves in a matter of hours."

"Ducard?" I ask. "Are you sure?"

"That's what he says. I've never met the man."

"Patch me the visual," I say.

The screen at the foot of my bed becomes alive, and there is a face I know – age had hit Henri, but it's him. I get up.

"Let him in," I say, "but don't let him out of your sight."

'

"Henri!" I am genuinely happy to see him, and my smile shines at him as he closes his car door. "What brings you to Gotham, old friend?"

Ducard walks up the steps. "Bruce," he says, and we embrace.

"This is Alfred, my butler."

They shake.

"As to your question," Henri says in his Marseille-bred accent, "I was in New York teaching a class on forensics. I decided to pay you a last-minute visit before I flew back." He smiles. "It's very good to see you."

"Likewise," I say. "Please, come in."

The entrance hall impresses him, and I watch as he picks it apart with his mind. This man taught me so much of what I know about deduction it's embarrassing, and the gears turning in his mind are still sharp. "Quite the collection here," he says, pointing to my Van Goghs.

"Yes," I say, and change the subject. "So how is retirement treating you?"

"Oh," he says, showing no sign of offense at my keeping track of him, "it's been slow. Frankly I miss the hunt. I was wondering…"

Alfred rushes into the room, and we both turn.

"What is it, Alfred?"

"Urgent call for Master Wayne," he says, and I walk over. 'Blue line,' he mouths at me, facing away from Ducard.

"Henri," I say, "I have to take this."

"Not a problem," he says. "Will you be long?"

I shake my head. "Probably not," I lie, and he can tell.

"I should go," Henri says, and grabs for his coat-

"No, no," I say. "Wait just a minute. Alfred, please keep our guest company while I'm gone." And I walk deeper into the mansion.

Crime doesn't stop just because a friend is in town. The blue line is my direct, emergency connection to the GCPD, and it only rings when something that can't wait is happening. It's the only call I'll take during my 'off' hours. I pick up the receiver in the study.

"Gordon," I say, to silence. "…Crispus? Bullock?" The line is dead. I put the phone down and walk back to the main entertaining room.

"So sorry about-" I pause as I notice two things. The first thing I see is that the clock door to the cave is open; as I get closer I see a bloody, unconscious Alfred on the ground nearby. So much for a social visit – Henri Ducard is here on business. I should have known.

I run to my butler's side. "Alfred, are you o…" I notice, fast, that it isn't blood – it's fake, and then a prick, barely there, pinches the back of my neck, and the world goes black. Sloppy, Bruce. So…slop…

'

When I wake up it's dark outside, and Alfred is shaking me. "For god's sake, Bruce," he whispers-

"I'm awake," I say, and roll over. I prop myself up on my knees and stagger to my feet. "He's gone, isn't he."

"I'm afraid so," Alfred says," or at least his heat signature is no longer gracing the estate grounds."

"Bastard," I say.

"Apparently the secret door posed no problem for him."

"Henri is a master sleuth," I say. "He would have seen it with a glance." I pause, rubbing my aching head. "Did he take anything from the cave?"

"I haven't been, sir."

I put a foot forward. "Let's go."

Everything is everywhere. That's the best way to describe it; drawers emptied, their contents all over the floor – he made an effort not to do much damage, which I am grateful for, but his surgical search toughed all corners of the cave. He looked through the Batmobile, and the trophy area. But for what?

What was he trying to find? And did he find it?

"So he deduced you were Batman," Alfred says as we clean up, "and ambushed us in our home. Maybe he wanted a souvenir, something for his desk?"

I don't have it in me to laugh. "He was looking for something of mine," I say, "but something Batman had, not Bruce." I pause, a long one, and stare at nothing. Suddenly I look up. "Alfred…"

"Yes?" he says.

"Who would be better able to escape my detection, than the man who taught me to detect?"

"You think this has something to do with…" He looks perplexed.

"The ball, yes," I say. "Let's say the dead call on the blue line was a distraction."

"That number is known to a select few," Alfred says, then pauses and shrugs. "Although Bullock is drinking these days…"

"If it was made to distract us," I say, "Henri or his outfit has someone in the GCPD. In which case…" I pause. "It could mean that whatever he was looking for was something Batman took, that the police should have…" I turn to the depths of the cave.

"Evidence, sir? But why would he want a replica?"

"Who was it," I ask, "that determined it was a replica?"

We stare at each other. The police, of course.

"I'll get Gordon on the line," I say-

"And I'll prepare your spelunking equipment," Alfred says with a smirk. "I know how much you love that activity."

It's not my favorite. "Right." I sigh, and the call to the GCPD rings through.

'

"I don't know what to say," Gordon says. "I think I slipped up with the direct line number, wrote it down somewhere."

"That's fine," I say. "Did you find your guy in evidence?"

He nods. "One of Corrigan's hangers-on."

"He's still in the department?"

Gordon sighs. "More of his friends are in internal affairs." He looks up at me. "How'd you figure it out?"

"I'd rather not say."

There is a mutual pause, then Gordon turns to the clock. "Right. Well, I should get home," he says.

"I should do my rounds." And with those goodbyes, we part ways.

Ducard wasn't lying – he did have a flight to France, and is gone. I'm not going to follow him; it would take a lot of work to find him in whatever foxhole he's hiding in in Europe. But I think he'll be back. If Henri has a weakness, it is his competitive nature, and this time, he has most definitely lost.

His advice, that no man can solve them all – it breeds weakness. I can't think about my work like that, even though in my heart I know it's true. Whatever the case, I will never give up on solving it. After all, I am not a man.

I am the night.

I swing away into my home, and am one with the darkness.


End file.
